Cheese
by Issy
Summary: How exactly did Fawcett and Stebbins come to be snogging in the rosebushes at the Yule Ball? And what did a dictionary have to do with it? The tale of Hufflepuff's snarkiest member and Christmas.
1. Stilton

Disclaimer: I don't own one hair on Harry Potter's head. Or any other character in the series. It all belongs to JK Rowling.

A/N: A big thank you to my SQ beta reader, Igenlode Wordsmith!

How exactly did Fawcett and Stebbins come to be snogging in the rosebushes at the Yule Ball? Why does there seem to be a Fawcett in both Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff? What is the meaning of life?

This tale of two houses, two sets of twins, a dictionary and lots of cheese will hopefully answer these questions.

Two of them, anyway.

****

Chapter One - Stilton

Christmas.

The season of joy. The season of giving.

The season when I would prefer locking myself up in the Slytherin dormitory - no, scratch that, in Professor Snape or some other ridiculously strict professor's office - with an enormous tome on Algerian chandlers (who, incidentally, are only slightly less interesting than stale bread) than watch another smug male catch yet another swooning female under mistletoe. The season when I would prefer relinquishing all magic (including my Charms Club), moving to Nepal and becoming a goat than watch another assembly of carollers.

Screw Christmas. Seriously, bollocks to it. The entire season makes me sick. Deck the halls and all that. I mean, come on, who likes cheerfulness forced on them?

Wait. Let me rephrase that. I can think of many people that like cheerfulness forced on them. Males given to smugness, females with swooning tendencies and carollers, for a start.

What person with _half a brain_ likes enforced cheerfulness? Happiness ought to be a genuine emotion, not something that gets forced on you (with 20 extra cheese) just because December 25 happens to be in the near future.

Merlin's toenails, I hate Christmas. I've never been one for cheesy holidays, and Christmas is the cheesiest of the lot. Commercialised (even in the Wizarding World) to the umpteenth degree. I swear, if I see another dancing Christmas tree, it's going flying all the way to Swaziland. Shoved up a caroller's backside, preferably. So much for the calm plodding Hufflepuff image, eh?

But, alas for me, Christmas is one thing that I just can't escape. It tends to be that way, when you live in a dormitory with two other perfectly normal people with one abnormality - they morph into bloody Christmas elves the instant it starts to get cold. Not to mention when you have a twin sister who contracts some sort of psychosis when the calendar turns to December.

And hence, we find our heroine, Sylvia Fawcett, sitting at the Hufflepuff table on December 14, 1994, very, very annoyed.

* * *

"Gloooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooria! Hosanna in excelsis!"

"Do us a favour and shut up, Juno," I muttered, shoving another piece of toast into my mouth.

Shouldn't have spoken. Bad idea, Sylvia, very bad idea.

Juno Dorny, one of my best friends, swooped on my displeasure like some bird of prey on a rotting carcass. "'Tis the season to be jolly, Sylvester!" Conjuring up a Santa hat from somewhere (a yellow one, of course, for Hufflepuff) she smacked it on my head. "You better watch out -"

"- you better not cry," Nydia Hopkirk, my other best friend, chimed in.

"You better not pout, I'm telling you why!" they bawled together. "Santa Claus is coming to town!"

Honestly. Did they never shut up about bloody Christmas?

There is something about Christmas that provokes constant profanity and other sadistic verbal diarrhoea. For example, right now it seemed like a really good idea to pull out my wand, Stun both Juno and Nydia and dance round their beds in the Hospital Wing like a rabid gremlin.

"Why don't you two go make yourself some nice Christmas mince pies?" I suggested. Look at me grin. That's right, it's an ear-to-ear genuine Christmas grin from Sylvia Fawcett. Oh no, I'm not grinning through my teeth at all - and was that blood my fingernails just drew from my palm? "And then perhaps eat them. And choke on them."

"Ooooooh!" both of them chorused.

"Harsh!" Nydia exclaimed.

"Feisty!" Juno added.

"Brutal!"

"Cruel!"

"Callous!"

"Aggressive!"

I left. I couldn't deal with the cheese.

The last thing I heard as I heard as I left the Great Hall was Nydia's voice. "Aw, poor Sylvia. She has absolutely NO Christmas spirit!"

The world really was going to the dogs.

* * *

Is there no place _anywhere_ in this school that I can escape from bloody Christmas?

Let us, for a moment, consider Charms class. A nice, sensible class with a nice, sensible teacher. An academic class where we learn things, as opposed to say, Divination, where we forge things. A place where one would think you could escape the insanity of the season.

Not so.

"Attention please!" Professor Flitwick squeaked when our Charms class (made up of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff fifth-years) had settled down. "I have some very exciting news for you all!"

Really? Surprise me.

"Our lessons until the end of term are going to take on a very festive feel," Professor Flitwick continued, "as we decorate Hogwarts for the Yuletide season!"

Joking. He had to be joking. He _had_ to be.

I couldn't help myself. My hand shot up. "Professor Flitwick?"

Professor Flitwick beamed. "Yes, Miss Fawcett?"

"Is it possible for the arrangements to be rearranged so that a year group that isn't studying for VERY IMPORTANT EXAMS does the Yuletide preparations? As we are studying for VERY IMPORTANT EXAMS, perhaps it would be expedient if we studied something more practical. Something that will help us in our VERY IMPORTANT EXAMS?"

Fawcett Rule #1 For Weaselling Out Of Things You Do Not Want To Do: Play the exam card. Sound intelligent while you do it.

"I had considered that, Miss Fawcett," Professor Flitwick replied, "but on closer consideration, I realised that several of the charms we will be learning and practicing this week are examinable for your OWL practical Charms exam. Therefore, this week will be invaluable practical experience!"

Bugger. Time for a change of tack.

Fawcett Rule #2 For Weaselling Out Of Things You Do Not Want To Do: Play the religion card. Sound sincere while you do it.

"But Professor Flitwick," I protested, "I'm from a family of extremely zealous Tibetan Buddhists! Christmas is against my religion! I think it would be impossible for me to participate in this week's lessons due to deep moral opposition."

My sister Sabina snorted from across the room. "Tibetan Buddhists? Yeah, right!"

I caught her eye and gave her a Look, but it was too late. Professor Flitwick was on to that one as well. "If your _sister_ doesn't have a problem with it, Miss Fawcett, I don't see why you should," he said, raising an eyebrow.

Note to self: think up better religious excuse. And kill stupid twin sister. Last time I help her fool around with Potions and try to cross Age Lines! Aren't Ravenclaws supposed to be _smart_?

Fawcett Rule #3 For Weaselling Out Of Things You Do Not Want To Do: Play the illness card. Sound sick while you do it.

I coughed violently. Then coughed violently some more. "Professor Flitwick, I think I've contracted Fwooping cough! Perhaps I'd better go to the hospital wing. For the rest of the week."

Professor Flitwick raised his other eyebrow. "I'm sure you remember, Miss Fawcett, when your entire grade was immunised against Fwooping cough in 1990 after that epidemic?"

Bollocks.

Fawcett Rule #4 For Weaselling Out Of Things You Do Not Want To Do: If you haven't weaselled out of it yet, you're not going to be able to weasel out of it.

"The truth, if you please, Miss Fawcett," Professor Flitwick said somewhat sternly. "Why don't you want to participate in this week's classes?"

I groaned inwardly. I guessed I'd just have to tell the truth.

"It's just... well, I don't like Christmas, Professor," I replied.

"That's rather sad," Professor Flitwick remarked offhandedly. "But, unfortunately, I cannot excuse you from class on that basis. You will have to bear with us, I'm afraid." He beamed at me. "Perhaps this week will allow you to begin liking the festive season!"

This coming from the professor of my favourite subject. What on earth was the world coming to?

"Today, we shall be learning Merry-Holly-Berry-Oh Charms," Professor Flitwick announced, "and then using them to deck the halls with boughs of holly!"

The world isn't just going to the dogs. At this rate, it's going to the pink fluffy poodles with mushroom topknots.

* * *

Just what I need.

After a day in which I had immense amounts of fun conjuring holly in Charms, potting Christmas trees in Herbology and transfiguring stones into Christmas lights in Transfiguration - in a day where even _Snape _had got all Christmassy and made us mix eggnog in Potions - the last thing I bloody well needed was a dinner of roast turkey off a plate with little holly berries on it.

"Pass us the mulled mead, Sylvia!" Archie Stebbins bellowed from a few places away.

Therein lies my point.

Now, don't get me wrong. I can take Christmas. I could live with one, very small and low-key Christmas once every decade. What I cannot take is forced immersion in fa-la-la-ing.

Forgive me. I am a simple cynic, who wishes to find her eternal home in some faraway, peaceful nirvana. (Ah, that sweet nirvana: the ultimate extinction of the individual soul; a transcendent state sought by Hindus and Buddhists through right living, although it may be attained more easily by working for the Ministry of Magic. I love _The Cynic's Dictionary_ very, very muchNot a particularly Hufflepuff trait, but then, I'm not your everyday Hufflepuff.)

Back to the point. Forgive me. I am a simple cynic who cannot stand constant immersion in commercialisation. Has anyone else noticed how disgusting it is that we get Christmas catalogues in APRIL? That society requires that parents buy ugly, insanely popular, hard-to-obtain toys (not to mention hundreds of Galleons worth of accessories) to appease their children? That children need to be appeased?

So, once more, forgive me. Forgive me if I did not dance for bloody joy when, later that night in the Hufflepuff common room, Professor Sprout announced we were going to have a Yule Ball.

Just what I need. To be surrounded by more Christmas.

The Fawcett Definition Of Christmas: sadomasochism.

* * *

"Sylvia! Sylvia!"

I turned. It was the end of the day, and the halls were emptying fast, so I dropped my bag and waited for Kevin Quindle, a rather dumpy boy who was in fifth-year Hufflepuff like me, to catch up. "What's up, Kevin?"

Observe: Sylvia is being a nice person. Sylvia will not snap at dumpy little Kevin. Sylvia likes little Kevin lots. Aw, little Kevin.

I think you get the point. The parents that created Kevin Quindle should not have been allowed in the gene pool. Even at the shallow end.

But I'm being a nice person today, so I will wait for him and perhaps I will even let him walk back up to the common room with me. Nice Sylvia. Good Sylvia.

"Um, hi, Sylvia," Kevin said breathlessly, coming up beside me.

"Hi," I replied.

Awkward silence.

I hate awkward silences. Whenever they happen, I get this bizarre urge to make sarcastic comments. They're hardly ever related to anything - although, of course, the fact that the economy of the entire wizarding world is in the hands of gamblers is, arguably, related to everything. So Professor Vector claims, anyway.

"Um… Can - can I walk up to the common room with you?"

I shrugged. "Who's stopping you?"

I started walking. If he wanted to walk with me so bad, he could bloody well catch up.

Sorry. Christmas is making me swear. I'd censor it, but I'm anticensorship. Just like I'm antidisestablishmentarian.

"Um, Sylvia?"

Kevin had caught up while I was pondering censorship. I guess that got censored instead of my foul language. "What?"

"Um, can I ask you a question?"

Have I ever mentioned how much the word 'um' irritates me? It's completely superfluous. It's a cop-out for people who have nothing better to say but like the sound of their own voices too much to simply shut up. But I digress.

"You just did." Give me some credit here, people. The sarcasm there could have been far, far more biting.

"Um… Sylvia…"

Now, most normal people would have prompted him along with a kindly, "Yes…?" at this point.

Not me. "What?"

"Um… will you go to the Yule Ball with me?"

I stopped. I looked at Kevin. I stared.

Insert some silence here. Not stunned silence, because that wasn't what it was. It was more of an incredulous silence, a 'what the...?' kind of silence.

Kevin seemed to take my non-answer as some kind of positive response, because he pointed at something above my head. "Look! Mistletoe!"

Merlin in a purple leotard. Kevin had caught me under mistletoe.

Time to break the silence, Sylvia.

I probably would have hit him if a convenient group of sixth-years hadn't walked between us, obscuring my view of him for a moment or two.

"Bugger off, Kevin."

* * *

I slammed my dormitory door behind me and locked it with a charm. If no one could get in, perhaps Christmas couldn't get in either, and I could do my homework in peace. And then perhaps think of various ways to mutilate Kevin Quindle.

"Oh Sylviaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?!"

Bugger.

"Sylvester dahling?!"

Bollocks.

Introducing Sylvia Fawcett, one of the most dedicated students in the fifth year at Hogwarts. However, she is clearly not bright enough to not lock herself in a dormitory with two bloody Christmas elves!

No wonder Sabina is the Ravenclaw twin.

"Call me Sylvester again, Juno, and I'll have your guts for garters."

"Ooooooh!" both of them chorused.

"Harsh!" Nydia exclaimed.

"Feisty!" Juno added.

"Brutal!"

"Cruel!"

"Callous!"

"Aggressive!"

I expected more of them. I really did. For starters, I thought their vocabulary was a hell of a lot bigger.

"Shut up," I moaned, flopping on my bed and burying my face in my pillow. Please, let it be a dream, let it be a nightmare…

But no. No such luck.

"We just heard some very interesting news, Sylvester!" Nydia announced, flopping next to me.

"Some very, very interesting news!" Juno added, flopping on the other side, effectively trapping me between them.

"We just heard -"

"- that Kevin Quindle asked you to the ball -"

"- while you were under mistletoe -"

"- and you told him to bugger off -"

"- and didn't kiss him -"

"- even though you were under mistletoe!"

I looked at both of them incredulously. "That happened about three minutes ago, and I came straight up here. How the hell did you find out before I got here?!"

"Kevin," they chorused.

"He's crying in the common room," Juno told me.

"You must have walked right past him," Nydia added. "Harsh."

"Feisty."

"Brutal."

"Cruel."

"Callous."

"Aggressive."

"Well, what the hell would you have done in that situation?" I snarled.

Both Nydia and Juno looked taken aback. "Well… I wouldn't have gone with him, of course," Juno said thoughtfully.

"Neither would I," Nydia agreed. "But I wouldn't have been so harsh."

"And you were under mistletoe."

"Customs are customs, Sylvester."

"I would have kissed him."

"So would I. Mistletoe is mistletoe."

"Look," I told them firmly. "I was under the mistletoe. I will give you that. I, Sylvia Fawcett, was under mistletoe. However, I was under said mistletoe alone."

Nydia raised a quizzical eyebrow. "How does that work?"

"Kevin was about three feet away! I wasn't standing _that _close to him!"

Juno waggled her finger in my face. "Tsk, tsk, Sylvia, you know that you have to kiss the nearest man, even if you're under the mistletoe all on your lonesome!"

"Then I probably should have kissed one of the sixth-years that walked between us!" I retorted.

"Ooh! Sixth years!" Juno exclaimed.

"No-one told us about the sixth years!"

"Who were they?"

I wracked my brains. They had been wearing red... "Gryffindor," I said slowly. Then it clicked. "Twins! Red hair! Funny! Big family! Play Quidditch! Wear jumpers with their initials on them! Bugger it, what are they called?!"

"Fred and George Weasley?" Nydia breathed, looking like she was about to pass out at the mere _thought_ of them.

"That's them," I replied. "And that friend of theirs - the Quidditch commentator, what's his face? Lee Jordan. And that Towler fellow - you know, Bulbadox Boy. The one with the bad hair."

"You really do have a terrible memory for names, Sylvia," Juno told me, laughing, "if you can forget the infamous Weasley twins!"

Yes, that is true. While my memory for definitions for _The Cynic's Dictionary _is perfect, my memory for names is terrible. Sabina has never let me forget the memorable occasion that I accidentally called Professor Snape Professor Trelawney.

Worst detentions of my life, let me tell you.

Nydia got up. "Well, I'm off to see if I can find me a date," she announced. "Coming?"

"I'm coming!" Juno jumped up.

"Sylvester?"

"Remember what I said about the guts for garters, Nydia? Don't call me Sylvester. And no, I'm not coming. I am going to stay here in peace and quiet where Kevin Quindle cannot find me."

Juno shrugged. "Suit yourself. _Alohamora!_" Breaking the charm I had put on the door, the unholy duo left, leaving me to my ruminations.

I've always been slightly jealous of the Weasley twins - even if I can forget their names. I wonder what they'd think if they knew that - probably that weren't doing their job properly, I suppose. When Sabina and I were younger, we always got fussed over for being identical twins, and it was kind of nice, being thought of as special. But then when we got here... there was the Weasley twins and the Stebbins twins in the year above us, and so twins were old hat. Bit irrational, I suppose, but there you have it.

I always have felt a bit sorry for Fred and George, though, what with that stuffy brother of theirs - the one that was Head Boy last year, Peter or Patrick or Poncy or whatever his name was. He seemed like a bit of a prig. I know _I_ wouldn't like to live with him.

But right now, the troubles of the Weasley twins are nothing compared to mine. _They _didn't get asked to the Yule Ball by Kevin Quindle!

Merlin's toenails, I hate Christmas!


	2. Blue Vein

Disclaimer: I don't own one hair on Harry Potter's head. Or any other character in the series. It all belongs to JK Rowling. Likewise, _The Cynic's Dictionary_ (source of the adapted definitions for natural selection, neurotic, Ministry of Magic, yoghurt, Hogwarts, lady, erogenous zones, werewolf, kindred spirits, factionalism and negotiation) is not mine - it belongs to Rick Bayan. I am extremely proud _not_ to own the custom of gouging out a cynic's eyes so as to improve their vision - blame the Scythians for that one.

A/N: A big thank you to my awesome SQ beta reader, Igenlode Wordsmith!

****

Chapter Two - Blue Vein

I couldn't stay in the dormitory. Nydia and Juno had decked it out with all kinds of tacky Christmas decorations and it was suffocating me. Besides, while I was in the dormitory, Kevin Quindle knew where I was.

So that is why, on the evening of December 16, 1994, Sylvia Fawcett could be found in the library, reading _Majorly Hard And Incredibly Complex Charms For Absolute Geniuses_. Well, actually, that wasn't what I was reading. In between the pages, so Madam Pince wouldn't see, I was reading _The Cynic's Dictionary (Second Magical Edition)._ My favourite book in the whole world, but unfortunately one that Madam Pince doesn't approve of. Why I don't know, because if you ask me, Madam Pince is a born cynic.

'Natural Selection: Positive proof that Providence favours the lusty over the learned, and that human evolution will eventually return us to our rowdy Palaeolithic roots.'

If only natural selection would remove Kevin Quindle from the gene pool.

"Well, hello Sylvia."

I looked up from the entry on 'neurotic' (sane but unhappy about it) to see Edmund Stebbins sitting opposite. "Hello Edmund."

Edmund Stebbins was a sixth year Ravenclaw, and was, like me, a twin. His brother Archie was in Hufflepuff, and they were quite different. While Archie was, to be frank, a bit dumb and more interested in Quidditch than economics, Edmund was good company. He had a biting sense of humour and, moreover, actually understood when I was talking about when I was bemoaning a) Christmas or b) being a twin.

"What are you reading?"

Wordlessly, I passed him _The Cynic's Dictionary._

He flipped it open to a random page then grinned at me. "Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia. Do we have to play Guess The Definition again?"

I smiled and leaned back in my chair. "Hit me."

"Okay." Edmund ran his finger down the page. "Ministry of Magic."

"A miniature totalitarian state governed by an unelected hierarchy of officials who take a dim view of individualism, free speech and equality. The backbone of all Western magical democracies," I replied instantly. "That's an easy one. Your turn." I took the dictionary back off him and opened it at another random page. "Let's see… yoghurt."

"A thriving colony of bacteria swimming in curdled milk; a pleasantly sour concoction said to extend the life spans of Caucasian mountain-folk, at least when consumed in conjunction with fresh air, vigorous goat-chasing and a stress-free work environment. Popular in the U.S., especially among dieters, who enjoy it laced with sugar and preserves," Edmund replied.

Damn. He was getting good. I might actually have to start trying. In all my days of playing Guess The Definition with Edmund, I'd never once had to try. He always screwed up on the really long ones. And I loved the book so much I practically treated it as a textbook. That's Hufflepuff dedication for you.

He took the dictionary back off me. "Hogwarts," he said.

"An institution that offers impressionable magical adolescents a first-rate education in sociology, especially the dynamics of clique formation and pecking orders. Other subjects include Comparative Partying Techniques for Minors, Awkward Adolescent Romance, Celibacy for Arithmancy and Potions Wonks, Empty Rhetoric for Ministry Aspirants, Male Bonding Through Social Alcoholism, and Living with Zits."

Edmund grinned. "You're too good!" he replied, passing the dictionary back over.

"You know you can't win," I replied, opening the dictionary at another random page.

"Lady."

"Not Sylvia Fawcett."

I shot Edmund a Look, but I was grinning. "Edmund, I won't play Guess The Definition with you unless you play nice!"

He made a face. "Awww…"

I stuck my tongue out at him. "Go on. Lady."

"Lady: (archaic) A gentle creature who spoke in melodious tones and wore a corset around her earthly desires, at least in public. A seriously endangered species, now approaching extinction as careerism sweeps across its former range," Edmund replied. He really was getting good.

I passed him the dictionary. "Up the ante, Edmund," I told him. No matter how good he got at this game, no-one had read _The Cynic's Dictionary_ more times than Sylvia Fawcett.

He opened the dictionary at a random page and grinned. He looked up, eyes twinkling. "Erogenous zones."

I opened my mouth. Then shut it again. Had I just heard correctly?

"By current reckoning, any region of the human topography with the possible exception of the elbows," Edmund read from the dictionary. "And the victory goes to me." He opened the dictionary to the very front page, where a tally was scrawled. "Fawcett: 34, Stebbins: 1," he read, after scratching in his victory. "Your perfect record is somewhat tarnished now, Sylvia."

I was still somewhat flabbergasted. Never, ever, in my whole life, had I heard an innuendo cross the lips of Edmund Stebbins. "Edmund!" I exclaimed at last.

He looked at me, blinking angelically. "Yes, Sylvia dear?"

"That was playing dirty!"

He laughed. "And who taught me to play dirty, darling?"

I blushed. I remembered a certain game of Guess The Definition at the end of last year when I had won through playing embarrassment techniques. I asked him the definition of werewolf (a legendary predator prone to monthly bouts of FMS Full Moon Syndrome, which, like the more mundane monthly affliction observed in human females, has been known to trigger wanton attacks on the innocent - with the added embarrassment of rapid hair growth and a serious underbite that defies the efforts of the best dental wizards) while Professor Lupin (whom we had just found was a werewolf) was about two metres away, returning some books to Madam Pince. He had left the school later that day, and I had always felt slightly guilty about it.

"I taught you to play dirty," I conceded.

"Yes. Yes, you did," he replied, handing the dictionary back to me. "Oh, and while we're on the topic of dirty things, I've got a proposition for you."

This time, I didn't flinch. If there's one non-cynical thing I can say about myself, it's that I learn from my mistakes. I mock-sighed. "No, Edmund, I will not buy you a harem for Christmas. How many times do I have to tell you?"

He grinned and swatted my hand gently. "No, silly. Will you come to the Yule Ball with me?"

I thought about it. Then I thought about it some more. "Well, if I have to indulge in the cheesy commercialisation that is Christmas, I may as well do it with someone who hates it almost as much as I do," I told him. "I'll come."

He grinned. "Excellent." He leaned conspirationally closer. "But you know you're only doing it so you can say you dated me when we're both forty-five and I'm the Minister of Magic."

"And what a spectacular midlife crisis it will be."

Edmund laughed. "I love you, Sylvia. I hope you know that."

I pretended to file my nails. "You know I'm only using you to escape from Kevin Quindle, Stebbins, Minister of Magic or no Minister of Magic."

He pretended to cry. "Oh, Sylvia! I thought we were kindred spirits!"

"Kindred spirits," I began.

"- Unrelated relatives whose souls bear an uncanny resemblance to our own. A precious commodity that dwindles as one drifts from the herd: cows and chickens enjoy them in abundance, as do Quidditch players, Order of Merlin recipients, feminists and construction workers; but the stray individualist, uniquely warped by years of independent thinking and eccentric reading, may encounter them only in dreams," we finished together.

Life in terms of _The Cynic's Dictionary._ Fan-bloody-tastic.

* * *

Unfortunately, my reasonably good mood did not last long. When Edmund and I left the library a few hours later, we were serenaded by a chorus of first-year students singing 'God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs.' They were being led by Professor Flitwick waggling his wand like a conductor's baton. "Hello there Mr Stebbins, Miss Fawcett!" he said cheerfully. "'Tis the season to be jolly! This first year Charms class have all received detention and I thought I'd give it a bit of a Christmas theme. They will be singing Christmas carols in front of the library for an hour every night till Christmas!"

Honestly. Was there no escape from bloody Christmas?

Edmund smiled his Ravenclaw grin. The Ravenclaw grin and the Actual Edmund grin are very different entities, let me tell you. "How very… inspired of you, Professor Flitwick," he told his Head of House. "Well… Sylvia and I had best be going… we've been studying hard… very tired…"

"That's my good studious boy!" Professor Flitwick called after him as we walked away.

I swallowed a snort of laughter. "Oh, the cheese!" I remarked after we'd rounded a corner.

"Pure cheddar," Edmund agreed.

"I'm more of a blue vein, myself," I replied. "Full of cynical mould."

Edmund grinned the Actual Edmund grin. "You should write a book about it," he told me. "My Life As A Piece Of Cheese, by Sylvia Fawcett. I can see it now."

"Why, thankyou." I pretended to sweep my hat off and bow.

"You're too cynical to be a Hufflepuff, Sylvia," he laughed. "The Sorting Hat screwed up big time."

"Whoever said I couldn't be cynical and hardworking at the same time? And anyway, there has to be an even distribution of cynics, Edmund. Imagine if you and I were in the same house - so much competition! And besides," I added thoughtfully, "if you and Archie were in the same house, you'd probably murder each other. I know I'd murder Sabina if I had to live with her twenty-four hours a day."

"I wonder if the distribution rule applies with Quidditch players," Edmund said. "It seems highly convenient to me that each house just _happens_ to have the right amount of players to make up a decent Quidditch team. I mean, if you're going by Murphy's Law, which, in my humble opinion, may as well be the Law of the Universe, they should be all piled up in one house."

"But look at Hufflepuff," I said in reply. "We've got Diggory, for sure, but we've got little Summerby training as reserve Seeker, and he's no pushover."

"Maybe he should have been in Slytherin, then," Edmund said, a mischievous glint in his brown eyes.

I laid my hand over my heart in mock incredulity. "Are you saying that Draco Malfoy is not a REAL Seeker!"

"Never!" he replied, winking.

I pretended to wipe away tears. "The boy that started the 'Support Cedric Diggory' campaign not a real Seeker! And to think: he started that campaign because he truly believes Cedric is the only worthy candidate to represent Hogwarts! It's not because he hates Potter at all! The 'Potter Stinks' on the other side of the badges has nothing to do with it!"

Edmund chuckled. "I don't see you wearing one of those 'Support Cedric Diggory' badges, Sylvia. C'mon, where is it? Whatever happened to Hufflepuff solidarity and all that?"

"That would be giving into all kinds of factionalism," I replied, grinning. "I'm afraid that I just don't share that abiding human need to create group conflicts based on blood, politics, gender, class or whether toilet paper should be pulled over or under the roll. Or whether Cedric Diggory or Harry Potter is the real Hogwarts champion."

"Such moral superiority you have." Edmund prodded light-heartedly: "But you _do_ believe Draco Malfoy isn't a _real _Seeker?"

"Of course he's not. We all know he bought his way onto the team," I answered.

Edmund waggled his finger. "Now, now, Sylvia. Play nice. He NEGOTIATED his way onto the team."

"Ah yes, negotiation. The art of persuading your opponent to take the little brown Knut and give you the big gold Galleon," I said "Or, in this case, the art of persuading your opponent to take the nice shiny broomstick and give you the nice Seeker position even though you are completely talentless. Even your Chang managed to beat him, and she's got about as much sense in her head as Uric the Oddball."

"So young, and so cynical!" Edmund remarked, grinning. "Anyway, our ways must part here, for I have Studious Ravenclaw things to do. See you, Sylvia!"

"Bye Edmund," I answered, as our ways parted.

Cynicism is so much more fun when you have someone to share it with. Where's the fun in seeing things as they are and not how they ought to be if you're the only one who can do it? At least that way, when the Scythians find you and pluck out your eyes to improve your vision, you can share a guide dog.


	3. Edam

Disclaimer: I don't own one hair on Harry Potter's head. Or any other character in the series. It all belongs to JK Rowling, She Who Is Mighty. Rick Bayan owns _The Cynic's Dictionary_, source of the definitions of cynic, rock music, evolution and power. Ambrose Bierce owns _The Devil's Dictionary_, source of the definition for emotion. The Scythians own the custom of gouging out a cynic's eyes to improve their vision, and I'm sure that there's someone out there who owns Edam cheese, but it's not me.

A/N: Many thanks to my fantabulous Sugar Quillbeta reader Igenlode Wordsmith, who knows when to make me rewrite. Three cheers for Igenlode!

**Chapter Three - Edam**

Have I ever mentioned how much I adore and would like to marry Professor Moody?

"That," I remarked to Nydia and Juno as we left the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom, "was the best lesson I have had all week."

Juno gave me a strange look. "Sylvia, he put the Imperius Curse on you four times! And you couldn't break it once!"

"Certainly not my definition of a good lesson," Nydia muttered. "I ended up tap dancing on Kevin Quindle's desk when he put the Imperius Curse on me last week."

I ignored her. "It was the first lesson all week that didn't have anything to do with bloody Christmas!" I sighed contentedly. "Ah, Professor Moody… my soul mate… fellow Christmas-hater…"

"Er - Sylvia? Could I - could I have a moment?"

Instantly, Nydia and Juno started giggling. I saw why. It was Kenneth Towler. I suppose they hadn't got over the Kevin + mistletoe + Weasleys/Jordan/Towler-walking-past incident. Typical.

Shooting them Sylvia-dagger-eyes (which I fully intend to patent one day) I shrugged and said, 'All right,' before following him out of earshot. Nydia and Juno seemed to be having interior convulsions, producing distortion of their features, accompanied by inarticulate noises. Or they could have been laughing. I'm not really sure.

Kenneth turned around to look at me. "Um... I was wondering..." he said.

Will not make sarcastic comment. Will not make sarcastic comment.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have a lot of respect for Kenneth Towler. A lot more than I have for a lot of other people, which is to his credit. He is quite intelligent, occasionally humorous, and it is entirely not his fault that he is disgustingly sensitive, has silly fluffy hair and is known throughout the school as Bulbadox Boy.

However, I also have an acerbic tongue. Which I bit.

Sounds like Kenneth bit his tongue too, because whatever he wanted to say came out quite bizarrely.

"I like carrots. Do you?"

I stared. "Carrots? What _are_ you talking about?"

He laughed nervously. "Just... checking. Um... Herbology survey. But what I meant is... what I wanted to ask is... would you...?" He took a deep breath. "Sylvia... um... would you like to come to the Yule Ball with me? I'd really like it if you would."

"Oh!" Liquorice-flavoured Merlin on a stick. How the hell was I going to get out of this one? The poor boy had turned a strange shade of pink. Combined with his hair, this made him look rather like a Puffskein.

Must be polite. Must be very, very inoffensive. If your acid tongue comes out now, Miss Fawcett, I will cut it off myself.

"Oh, Kenneth... look, I wish I could... but I promised I'd go with someone else..."

"Oh... um..."

What have I done? He sounded really hurt. Bad Sylvia! Why does the happiness of nice, easily upset people like him have to rely on nasty, snarky people like me?

"Well, um... I hope you have fun..."

"Thanks."

"Maybe I'll see you there... or something..."

"Look, Kenneth, I really am sorry," I said again. And I meant it. I genuinely felt bad. Nydia and Juno were still snickering. I could feel my face turning red.

"It's all right... um... yeah..."

Awkward silence. Which, for once, I did not feel like filling with sardonic commentary. "It's not that I don't _like _you, it's just -" I began.

"Don't worry about it," Kenneth said.

Hmm. Time to go, Sylvia.

"I think I'll just... go now," I said. I must have looked like a tomato with hair as I walked away.

"Have fun with your date!" he called after me.

I turned. Wasn't expecting that one. "Thanks. I hope you have fun with... er, whoever you go with."

"Thanks." He gave me a crooked half-smile and then scampered away in the opposite direction.

I felt genuinely bad as I walked back to the Hufflepuff common room. When I thought about it, I probably would have said yes if I hadn't already been going with Edmund. Kenneth Towler was a sweet boy - even if he did have hair that looked like a Diricawl had died in it - and he didn't deserve to be treated badly.

Though, in the long run, it was probably for the best. Kenneth Towler WAS a sweet boy. That was the problem. I don't know if he could cope with someone like me, an idealist whose rose-coloured glasses had been removed, snapped in two and stomped into the ground. Which, incidentally, had improved my vision tenfold.

I sighed and turned around, heading for the library to drown my sorrows in _Majorly Hard And Incredibly Complex Charms For Absolute Geniuses_. With _The Cynic's Dictionary_ inside.

* * *

To both my relief and my displeasure, the remaining days before Christmas went quite fast. I was relieved because it meant that the end of the Christmas season was fast approaching; but I was somewhat apprehensive about the Yule Ball. While I had no doubt that Edmund and I would have a lot of fun - probably making fun of everything in sight - balls and parties and places with loud music are not the favourite habitat of the cynic. Especially since loud music is nothing but a raucous musical rendering of adolescent glandular activity, peddled to receptive teens as a cheap and relatively bloodless means of overthrowing parental authority, along with most of the accumulated values of Western civilization. Or at least I think so, anyway.

But pass the days did, and this is why you now find Sylvia Fawcett in her dormitory on the morning of December 25, 1994, trying to hide from the rabid gremlins otherwise known as Juno and Nydia.

"WAKE UP, SYLVIA!" Juno howled.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!" Nydia joined in the cacophony.

I buried my head under my pillow. "Bugger off!"

No such luck. They bodily dragged me out of bed. "Get dressed, Sylvester!" Nydia told me, "and then it's present time!"

"Don't call me Sylvester!" I snapped. "Or -"

Juno leaned in. "If you don't get dressed in one minute flat," she hissed insidiously, "I'll have YOUR guts for garters, Sylvester."

I shut up. No matter how jaded I may be, I still have a survival instinct. It's the only reason evolution (a biological relay race hurtling onward and occasionally upward from the ancient muck, as trilobites and pterodactyls pass the baton to aardvarks and Ministry of Magic officials) hasn't got me yet.

* * *

You know, although the prefect body of Hogwarts is completely, absolutely and utterly corrupt (because, as we all know, power is not only the ability to make our fellow humans squirm, sweat and stammer on command, but is also regarded as an aphrodisiac) there are distinct advantages in belonging to it.

Like the Prefects' Lounge.

That haven for all members of the student leadership body. That Utopia of rooms. That most blessed, sacred, secret place where Juno and Nydia cannot follow me.

And so it was that I hissed "_Might and power!_" at the statue of John Dee that guarded the entrance to the Lounge at about two o'clock in the afternoon, after finally having managed to elude Juno and Nydia's damn-near psychic pursuit. Was there no place in the entire castle that I could hide? If I didn't know better, I'd say they were actually learning something in Divination.

Anyway. Back to the Prefects' Lounge.

The big room was apparently empty - although I think I would have preferred having to share space with Cho Chang and her unbearable giggles than face any more fa-la-la-ing from Juno and Nydia. The tap at the sink in the corner was dripping. I went and turned it off before pulling _The Cynic's Dictionary_ out of my bag and settling down in the corner of an over-stuffed sofa to read it for the seven hundredth time. I wondered how long I could stay in here before people would start worrying I'd died.

Ah. Peace.

"Hello, Sylvia."

Maybe not.

"Edmund?"

Edmund was sitting in a large armchair (black) in a well-concealed niche, fingers steepled. He was wearing jeans and a jumper (black) and he had a large tome (also black) open on his lap. His reading glasses (frames: black) were perched inelegantly on his nose. "You were expecting someone else?"

I blinked. "You are aware that you look like you're plotting to take over the world, aren't you?"

"What?"

"Well, there's the elegant all-black look - diabolical and slimming at the same time, good work on that one; the way you're sitting reminds me of that statue of Catiline outside the History of Magic classroom and your glasses make you look like an overworked politician's secretary. What are you reading, a grimoire?"

He laughed. "If only it was something that interesting." He lifted the book to show me the cover.

"_Gemstones Through The Age: A History Of Minerals In Seven Very Long Volumes,_" I read, raising my eyebrows. "What wonderful taste in books you have, Edmund."

"It was a Christmas present from my uncle Wenceslas. He's a bit odd - last year he sent Archie a build-it-yourself organ that was missing half the pieces."

"And you had nothing better to do than spend the afternoon reading this oh-so-interesting book?"

Edmund grimaced. "I had to escape. I couldn't stand it."

"I didn't know your dormitory mates were as rabid as mine."

"Oh, it's not them - they're all listening to the Christmas day Quidditch match, I think. It was Cho Chang." He put on a high falsetto voice. "'Oh, _Neddie_, you're a guy, I need your opinion. Do you think Cedric will like the Ghastly Green or the Putrid Puce robes better?'"

I snorted. "So which did you choose?"

"That was the thing," Edmund said. "The two sets of robes were _exactly the same colour_."

"Bet that didn't go over too well with Chang."

"Too right." He put on the falsetto voice again. "Oh, _Neddie_, don't be so _silly_! Everyone knows that _paprika_ and _cayenne_ are two _completely_ different colours!"

"So what did you tell her?"

"The truth."

"The truth?"

"That Diggory would like it best if she wore nothing at all. And to stop calling me Neddie."

I laughed. "What did she do?"

"Pouted, said, 'You are _so_ insensitive!' and then flounced over to Eddie Carmichael. Then it was all, 'Oh, _Eddie_, you're a guy, I need your opinion!' I had to get out of there before I burst out in fits of maniacal laughter."

"Alas, poor Cedric. I can see it now - 'Oh, _Ceddie_, you're a guy...'"

Edmund chuckled and got up. "Poor bloke was in here a while ago. He had that golden egg he got from under the dragon in the Triwizard tournament. Cup of tea?"

"Please," I answered, setting my dictionary aside. "Has he had any luck with it? The egg, I mean."

"It was rather bizarre, actually. He put in the sink and opened it and then stuck his head in there with it." He tapped the kettle with his wand and it began to whistle.

"What was he trying to do - get it to eat his head? That would make an interesting headline - _Triwizard Champion Eaten By Killer Egg._"

"I asked him about it - he said that the egg sang when it was underwater."

I stared at him incredulously. "A singing egg. Right."

"No, really. He said he discovered it when he was in the bath. Above water, it screeches. Underwater, it sings."

"It sings. Right. Does it prefer light operas or modern love ballads?"

"Can you stop being sarcastic for _one minute_?"

"Sorry, Professor Stebbins."

"Thank you." Edmund handed me a cup of tea and sat down next to me, his knee brushing mine. "Yes, the egg sings underwater. That's why he was in here sticking his head in the sink - he wanted to write the song down so he didn't forget it."

I chuckled. "I wonder where he got the idea to take the egg into the bath."

"Probably courtesy of one of our Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons. The other day, Moody was talking about geese that lay golden eggs, and he said something about baby geese only being born from them if the eggs were put underwater. Diggory probably thought it was worth a shot."

I raised an eyebrow. "So we could have maniacal geese running around the school?"

"Well, compared to the dragons from the First Task, geese would be positively tame for the second one," Edmund said.

"What did the egg sing about?" I asked.

"It was some sort of song about how underwater people would steal something precious, and he'd have to get it back."

"Like what?"

Edmund shrugged. "I don't know. I think the wording it used was 'something you'll sorely miss'."

I sniggered. "They'll probably nick the picture of Chang Cedric keeps by his bed."

"I wish they'd nick the real one. I might actually be able to study in Ravenclaw Turret then and not have to go to the library, where you inevitably distract me with your dictionary."

"You know you love my dictionary."

"Of course I love your dictionary. In fact, if it was me doing this Triwizard thing instead of Diggory, that's probably what they'd take."

"I hope you realise that I would have to kill you."

"What, before I'd rescued it? That's hardly sensible, darling."

I laughed easily. "You are possibly the only person in the world who could ever get away with calling me darling on a regular basis, Edmund."

"You really mean that, Sylvia?"

I looked across at him.

Chocolate-coated Merlin on a bloody _trapeze_.

He was serious.

I hesitated. This was _Edmund_. Edmund Stebbins, who I'd known since I was five years old and who I used to have mud fights with in his mothers' ornamental goldfish pond. Edmund Stebbins, who wouldn't know good grooming if it fell over him in the street. Edmund Stebbins, who'd been my best friend for years, who'd put up with me through thick and thin, who loved my cynical dictionary, who understood the twin thing, who knew who Ambrose Bierce was, who was snarky and clever and…

…oh Merlin, Edmund, whose hands were shaking as he set aside his tea cup, those beautiful long-fingered artisan's hands that I had teased him about for years. Edmund, who was looking at me as though I was Helen of Troy.

"Sylvia… I want you to know… I've never felt -"

He didn't get the chance to finish that sentence. My tea cup went flying and I kissed him.

After that first moment of shock, his arms came round me and his hands were buried in my hair, and it felt like… I don't know what it felt like. Like that feeling you get when you're reading a mystery novel and you figure out whodunnit before the characters do. Like that feeling you get when you work through a complicated Arithmancy proof - and then you look up the answer in the back of the textbook and it's the right one. A bit of gratification, a bit of satisfaction: but most of all it's the feeling that, for once in your lousy cynical little life, you've done something _right_.

Ah, emotion. A prostrating disease caused by an argument between the heart and the head. Sometimes accompanied by a copious discharge of hydrated chloride of sodium from the eyes.

But seriously, cynical remarks aside, that moment in the Prefects' Lounge was a bit of an epiphany for me. I _did _like Edmund. I liked him a lot. I just hadn't really realised it before.

Bloody hell, that's a cliché. But it's also true.

Edmund's breath was shaky as he drew back. "That was… nice."

I pretended to glare. "Only nice? What ever happened to earth-shattering? Spectacular? Only nice?"

He grinned, his fingers still tangled in my hair. "We're a match made in heaven, Sylvia. Admit it."

Mockingly, I sized him up with my eyes. "Hmmm… you'll do."

We both laughed. I kissed him again. And this time it felt like… well, this time it felt like that feeling you get when you touch an electric fence, because his woollen jumper gave me an electric shock.

I yelped and we broke apart. "That _hurt_! "

"Well, you know what that means, don't you? " Edmund said, a solemn look in his eyes.

"What, your clothes suddenly deciding to electrocute me? No, I don't know what that means – pray tell! "

"It means that our relationship is doomed before it's even begun. "

I blinked. "What? "

"Well, think about it! When was the last time Verius Hottus's clothes decided to electrocute Maribelle Susannah on that hideous WWN soapie I can never remember the name of? They are the standard of love against which we must measure ourselves, Sylvia, and I'm afraid we've come up short. "

I stared at him. He stared at me. He managed to keep the sombre expression on his face for about two seconds before we both burst out laughing.

"At least we're making it easier for the Scythians when they come to rip our eyes out for being cynics, " I said when we had both calmed down. "They'll get two birds with one stone."

He chuckled. "What shall we name our guide dog?"

Cynic is as cynic does. We really do think alike.

Edmund looked at me, a strange expression in his eyes. "You do realise you've spilt tea all over yourself, don't you?"

I looked at Edmund. Edmund looked at me.

Ten minutes later, when the clock struck three, we were still laughing.


	4. Cheddar

Disclaimer: I don't own one hair on Harry Potter's head. It all belongs to JK Rowling. _The Cynic's Dictionary_ (source of the definitions for monkeys, accidental magic, chic and dances) belongs to Rick Bayan. _The Devil's Dictionary_ (source of the definitions for lunatic, Lunarian, clarinet, noise, beauty and dancing) belongs to the venerable Ambrose Bierce. The literary free-for-all that is Elizabethan spelling belongs to Elizabethan people: Marlowe, Kyd, Jonson, Shakespeare, et al., and seems to be dependent on how they were feeling that day and what colour doublet they were wearing.

A/N: A big thank you to my fabulous SQ beta-reader Igenlode Wordsmith, who is (as the phrase 'fabulous beta-reader' might suggest) both my beta-reader and fabulous.

Keep an eye out for _Coffee_, the sequel to _Cheese_! Coming soon (I hope).

**Chapter Four - Cheddar**

Who would have thought it? Sylvia Fawcett, victim of a Christmas romance.

Well, maybe _victim_ isn't the right word. _Participant_, perhaps. _Partaker_. _Accomplice._ Yes, that one's good. Sylvia Fawcett, accomplice of Edmund Stebbins in the Dreddfulle and Moste Tragycalle Mysterye of the Yuletide Romaunce in Ye Olde Worlde Lounge Belongyng To Pryfecttes.

Definitely not _girlfriend._ Only people like Cho Chang and Sabina are girlfriends - you know, the nice, normal people that hold hands in the corridors and feed each other strawberries covered in chocolate. Cynics aren't girlfriends. We're partners in crime, co-conspirators, accessories - not _girlfriends._

Well, except on social occasions.

This was the sort of tricky definition question I was pondering when I made my way back to my dormitory that afternoon. If I was inclined to that sort of thing, I might have said I was in a post-snog daze. I, Sylvia Fawcett, whose only claim to fame was having a far more attractive twin sister, was a _girlfr_ - an accomplice. I, who was quite prepared to think I'd die old and alone in a draughty cottage in Cornwall with thirty pet Kneazles to keep me company, had a _boyfr_ - a partner in crime.

Yes, all right, maybe I was in a post-snog daze. It's the only excuse I have. Under normal circumstances, I never would have been distracted enough to allow myself to be pounced upon by two rabid monkeys the moment I entered the dormitory. Some arboreal animal that makes its home in genealogical trees, anyway. It was Nydia and Juno, ape women extraordinaire.

"Where have you been, Sylvester?" Nydia screeched.

"We've been so worried!" Juno shrieked.

"You could have been eaten -"

"- by a cockatrice -"

"- or a gargoyle -"

"- or a Dementor -"

"- or Snape -"

Accidental magic of the emotion-based, variety, while virtually useless when one's opponent is armed with a wand and the words _Avada Kedavra_, is not without its advantages – the principal one being that it is accidental and hence unexpected. Both Juno and Nydia went flying backwards and landed (disappointingly) on my bed.

"Damn," I said, standing up and brushing myself off, "if only I'd left my Chinese torture knives _on_ the bed instead under it."

Juno sat up. "Seriously, Sylvia, where have you been?"

I've been making out with Edmund Stebbins in the Prefects' Lounge. Yes, that would be a very good thing to tell Juno and Nydia. If I want it to be published in the Daily Prophet tomorrow.

"Not here, obviously," I replied coolly.

"But where?" Those two were incorrigible, really.

"Elsewhere."

Nydia sat up too. "Ooooh, Sylvia, who's the lucky boy?"

Puréed Merlin on toast.

Stay cool, Sylvia, stay cool. They do not have Monitoring Charms in the Prefects' Lounge. There are wards against that sort of thing.

"Why on earth," I asked loftily, "would there have to be a boy involved?"

"There's always a boy!"

I shot Nydia a Look. "You expect any self-respecting male in this school to put up with me for more than five minutes?"

She looked thoughtful. "Hmm. Good point."

Fawcett Rule #1 For Dealing With Nosy Dormitory Mates: When said NDMs get far too close to the truth for your own comfort, change the subject.

"You do know it's five o'clock, right? And the ball starts at eight?"

"BOLLOCKS!"

When it comes to dealing with NDMs, I've only ever needed one rule. Distraction is a better weapon than a wand any day.

* * *

I've never really understood how it can take Nydia and Juno _three hours_ to get ready for a dance. I mean, who are they going to see? Exactly the same people they see everyday. So why spend that amount of time getting ready? Some mysteries I will never fathom.

So for the remainder of that afternoon I lounged around casually on my bed reading _The Acharnians_ by Aristophanes (I was up to the bit where they put the dog on trial. I'm a big fan of the A-man: he's got a great sense of humour). Meanwhile. Nydia and Juno ran around like lunatics (one whom the moon inhabits: not to be confused with Lunarian, one who inhabits the moon, or Luna Lovegood, rather strange third year Ravenclaw who will happily tell you that the moon is made of Wensleydale cheese) with hairbrushes and nail varnish and, obscurely, a stuffed purple dragon called Floogle.

"Bollocks!" Juno moaned. "Hengist will never look at me again if I turn up like this!"

I looked up. "You're going with Hengist? As in Summers?"

"Yeah." Juno's eyes glazed over.

I couldn't help it. Much as I tried to stifle it, the snort of laughter emerged.

Juno gave me a Look. "Exactly what is wrong with Hengist Summers?" she snapped.

"You didn't see him after he took the Aging Potion." My sides were shaking with silent laughter. When Sabina and I had got there on the night she tried to submit her name for the Triwizard Tournament, McGonagall and Sprout were trying to bodily haul a wizened, dwarven Summers away from the Goblet. From memory, Summers had been shrieking and wheezing like an asthmatic kettle, but both Sabina and I had been laughing too hard at what he looked like to notice exactly what he was saying. Even after Sabina had tried to cross the Age Line herself and had also failed spectacularly, she hadn't looked quite as stupid as Summers had. Certainly, her beard had been a much nicer colour.

Nydia sighed. "I'd rather go with Hengist Summers than my date," she grumbled.

I quirked an eyebrow. I wasn't going to gratify her by asking who she was going with. Exhibit A: Sylvia Fawcett, the one and only clinical cynical Hufflepuff.

She sighed again and answered her own question. "Kevin Quindle."

I couldn't help it. I almost keeled over laughing. Nydia, Witch Weekly Quiz Taker Extraordinaire, reduced to taking Kevin Quindle to the ball. What's wrong with this picture?

Nydia humphed. "Well, it's not like YOU have a date, Sylvia!"

"Not through lack of offers, though," Juno added. "She turned down Kevin _and_ Kenneth Towler, remember!"

"I don't know why you rejected Kenneth Towler," Nydia said, looking rather cross. "I'd have gone with him in a second."

"I would have gone with him as well," Juno said. "I mean, I would have hired a lion tamer to tame his hair first, but I would have gone with him. But you just made up a stupid excuse about going with someone else!"

"But I am going with someone else, you idiots!"

Juno and Nydia both looked at me with one of those looks that says 'What on earth are you talking about?'

"What do you mean you're going with someone else?" Juno finally spluttered.

"I mean, I'm going with someone else! It's not like I hate Kenneth Towler or anything - I actually am going with someone else!" Honestly, for two girls so constantly in tune to the grapevine, how could they miss that one?

"Who?" Nydia asked, still looking slightly shell-shocked.

"Edmund Stebbins!" I replied exasperatedly.

"WHAT?"

"How did you not know that?" I asked incredulously.

"Well, you could have told us! That might have helped!" Juno said huffily.

"Honestly, you two knew that I told Kevin to bugger off before I even said it! How could you _not_ know that Edmund and I were going together?"

"Well, it's not like you told anyone, is it?"

"And Edmund certainly didn't tell anyone!"

"And there were obviously no witnesses!"

"We were in the bloody library! Someone must have heard!"

Juno and Nydia looked solemnly at each other. "Some people have all the luck," Nydia sighed.

"What?" I asked.

"Edmund Stebbins is goooooooooooooorgeous," Juno moaned.

I snorted. "No he's not. He's gangly and he has a hairy back and he'll be grey by the time he's twenty-five."

Nydia looked at me suspiciously. "And just how do _you_ know he has a hairy back, Sylvester?"

Bollocks.

"I may or may not have walked in on him in the Prefect's Bathroom while he had his shirt off," I said primly, trying desperately to maintain my poker face. Ah, bad, bad excuses. How bad this one was.

Juno sighed again. "That would have been the best Christmas present in the entire world! And you still persist that you hate Christmas!"

"That's why they call me a cynic," I replied, before returning to _The Acharnians._

Honestly, is Edmund Stebbins the only person that has come anywhere near close to understanding me?

* * *

Well, I actually did get ready for the ball, but I won't detail that experience here. Somehow, an account of me, Sylvia Fawcett, making herself look chic (read: considered smart without the deadening implication of intelligence) would not be in keeping with the cynical quality of this story.

But, believe it or not, I do know how to use makeup, and, if I do say so myself, I looked rather good.

Apparently Edmund thought the same thing. Or maybe I was just imagining that clunking sound when his jaw hit the floor.

"Hi," I said to him when he met me at five to eight. "Shut your mouth, you're dribbling."

Thankfully - because while a handsome and cynical dance partner is one thing, a handsome, cynical and dribbling dance partner is quite another - he snapped out of it and put on a look of mock affront.

"You're not supposed to speak to the future Minister for Magic like that, you know!"

I made a show of looking around. "Harry Potter? Where?"

He laughed and offered me his arm. "Let's move over here so we don't get trampled."

"Attempting to be all genteel, eh?" I commented as I took his arm.

"That's me," he replied. "Refined genteel Edmund Stebbins. Look, there are some flying pigs over there."

"No, that's Draco Malfoy's date." Malfoy's pug-faced woman, whoever she was, was wearing something very frilly and very pink, while the Talentless Git himself was wearing black velvet.

Edmund chuckled. "He looks like a priest with a clarinet stuck up his backside."

"There are worse instruments than a clarinet, you know."

"Yeah. Two clarinets."

"Champions over here, please!" McGonagall's voice sounded over the top of the random noise. Ah, noise. A stench in the ear. Undomesticated music. The chief product and authenticating sign of civilization.

"Let's go and be normal, darling," Edmund told me, pulling me along with the rest of the school as the teachers herded us into the Great Hall like so many buffalo.

"If you keep calling me darling, this relationship will be going nowhere fast," I warned him, grinning.

He pretended to sob. "But I thought you said I was the only one who was allowed to call you darling!"

"Yeah, well, be grateful you aren't dead yet."

He laughed. "I'll keep it in mind."

* * *

I won't deny that I was pleased to see Kenneth Towler had managed to get himself a date. Cynical and cold-hearted as I may generally seem to be, I wouldn't want to have scarred the boy for life or anything by rejecting him. Though I must admit I didn't think much of his date's dress sense - orange robes aren't my style.

Edmund and I stood off to the side as the four sets of champions began to dance. Harry Potter looked incredibly short in comparison with the others. His date was steering him like a broomstick. Poor boy.

Edmund snickered. "Look who Fleur Delacour snaffled as a date!"

"I don't think I'll ever look at Roger Davies the same way again," I murmured to Edmund. Delacour and Davies were snogging as if there was no tomorrow in the middle of the dance floor, making McGonagall's lips go so thin that they looked in need of medical treatment for anorexia. Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang, apparently about an inch from snogging as well, had settled for staring lovingly into each other's eyes. They'd obviously been reading too many soppy romance novels.

Krum, as usual, looked like an utter thicko - does anyone else apart from me think Krum is as thick as a brick? - but his date looked very pretty. Ah, beauty. The power by which a woman charms a lover and terrifies a husband.

"You do realise we're going to have to dance, don't you?" Edmund whispered to me as the champions' dance ended and McGonagall marched in to separate Davies and Delacour.

"I only accepted your invitation so I could leap about to tittering music with you. How could you ever think otherwise?"

The band struck up some kind of music - which, thankfully, contained no clarinets. And we danced.

The thing about all dances is that despite the fact they're supposed to be romantic, and romance is something that has no allegiance to the God of Things As They Are. Which means that dances are, on the whole, sickeningly sweet and horribly dishonest.

Which is why Edmund and I spent a good part of our night outside. If there is one thing cynics aren't, it's sickeningly sweet and horribly dishonest.

Most of the time, anyway.

* * *

"You know, I never gave you your Christmas present," Edmund remarked. Time had passed, considering the Yule Ball was due to end in, oh, an hour.

Note that we had spent a lot of time prior to this conspicuously _not_ talking. Which might account for the fact we were standing behind a rose bush. I leave the rest to your imagination.

"Well, I did get you a Christmas present," I told him, "but it was a clarinet, so I decided not to give it to you."

"Not giving me a clarinet is a far better Christmas present than giving me a clarinet," he replied. "They're archaic instruments of torture."

"That can only be operated by someone with cotton in their ears?" I added dryly.

He grinned and pulled out his wand. "_Accio!_"

A few seconds later, I was knocked forwards into his arms as a flying box hit me in the back of the head. "Thankyou very much," I said dryly, as he set me back on my feet. "Is this where you ask if I had a nice trip and I groan at the agonisingly bad pun?"

Edmund smiled and handed me the box. "I'd say Merry Christmas, but I like my head where it is," he told me.

"Bright blue wrapping paper. Unusual," I said as I tore it off.

"Well, we don't have a great variety of colours in the Ravenclaw common room - apparently, we're too intellectual to think about trivial things like _wrapping paper_. It was blue or green with singing dancing Santas, which I didn't think you'd like too much."

"You're right. I wouldn't."

It was a book, but I couldn't see what it was. I pulled out my wand. "_Lumos._"

The words _The Devil's Dictionary_ were scrawled across the front. I looked at Edmund. "Is this what I think it is?"

He grinned. "Open it."

I did. _To Sylvia, From Edmund, With Love (see p. 112)_ was scrawled on the front page. "See page 112?" I said.

"Just look," he urged me.

On page 112, one entry was marked with a red asterisk.

'Love: A temporary insanity curable by marriage or by removal of the patient from the influences under which he incurred the disorder. This disease, like _caries_ and many other ailments, is prevalent only among civilized races living under artificial conditions; barbarous nations breathing pure air and eating simple food enjoy immunity from its ravages. It is sometimes fatal, but more frequently to the physician than to the patient.'

I grinned at him. "Only you would buy me the father of all cynical dictionaries and asterisk the entry for love, Edmund."

He laughed and kissed me. "I'm glad you like it."

"I have a Christmas present for you too," I told him.

"Really? Where is it?"

"In my dormitory. _Accio!_"

The flying present landed neatly in my lap. "See, it really isn't necessary to knock people out when performing the Summoning Charm," I told him as I gave him the gift.

"Red and green paper, Sylvia?" Edmund quirked an eyebrow.

"Well, people in Hufflepuff are _trivial_ enough to know that red and green are Christmas colours. Hence, it was the only wrapping paper in the common room."

He laughed. "Your much-vaunted intelligence won't help you when Charms Club starts up again, let me tell you."

I stuck my tongue out at him. "Just open the present, would you?"

"All right, all right!"

It was a block of blue vein cheese.

With 'Your Partner In Crime As A Piece Of Cheese' charmed into the top.

"I love it!" he exclaimed.

"It's cheesy," I admitted.

He smiled. "Delightfully cheddar."

I smiled. "Merry Christmas, Edmund."

And then the rose bush blew up.

I have to say, that was one of the most terrifying moments in my life. I thought, for one horrible second, that Edmund and I were both going to die, that the school was being attacked by Death Eaters left over from the seventies (though, in retrospect, they would have to be really dedicated to be hanging around for fourteen years.) I didn't think - not even about Edmund. I just ran.

"Ten points from Hufflepuff, Fawcett!" I heard someone snarl as I sprinted past, arms clutched round _The Devil's Dictionary_ in an effort to protect it from our nameless attackers. "And ten points from Ravenclaw too, Stebbins!"

Snape. It was Snape.

I stopped. I had just been terrified out of my wits... by the only man with hair worse than Kenneth Towler's.

Sautéed Merlin served with a side-dish of radishes.

Edmund had caught up to me, cheese in hand. "Well," he said conversationally, "that was exciting."

I felt like banging my head against the nearest wall. "I feel like such an idiot," I moaned.

"Well, at least now I know why you weren't in Gryffindor," he said lightly.

I snorted. "If I'd been in Gryffindor, I would have done something really stupid like... oh, I don't know, hex back."

"That's _bravery_, Sylvia."

"Not when Snape is involved. That's _stupidity._"

On the pathway ahead of us, Snape blasted another rosebush. Two more innocuous snoggers hurtled away. "Ten points from Ravenclaw, Fawcett!" he bellowed after them. "And ten points from Hufflepuff too, Stebbins!"

I gaped. Edmund gaped. There was an odyssey of gaping as we attempted to process what we had just seen.

His brother. My sister. In a rosebush. _Snogging._

"Well," I said at last.

"That isn't something you see everyday."

"Who would have thought?"

"Sabina and Archie."

"Fawcett and Stebbins. "

"Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff."

"Just like you and me."

"Except, obviously, that I'm in Ravenclaw and you're in Hufflepuff, while Archie is in Hufflepuff and Sabina is in Ravenclaw."

"And, also, that I am Sylvia and she is Sabina, and you are Edmund and he is Archie."

"Yes. Good point."

Silence. Babbling had its limits.

"And to think... " I remarked finally, "they were snogging in the next rosebush."

Edmund made a face. "I don't want to think about Archie snogging _anyone_, thankyou."

We both laughed. Snape continued blasting rosebushes apart. Edmund wrapped his arms around me.

We were together.

All was right with the world.

Except for the fact that our _twins_ were also together, which was really rather twisted.

**fin**


End file.
